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The last time I was there, the air was drunk inside the Black Beret Cafe. No one expected to find bad poetry, bongo drums, dudes or chicks in Huaraches, or to hear the phrase… can ‘ya lay some bread on me. This is the side of the bed you don’t sleep on, the last thing we did before we became fat, sick or hooked, a chair tuned over and a meat raffle from 7 to 10. Disregard all rational thought and enter…